I’m no longer a fan of Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novels after having my fill during my 7th grade year.
It was fall at the time, the leaves were a beautiful shade of red, and the south was mildly chilly. Stepping out into the morning for school had always made me remember to grab my jacket, which often made for a few close calls at the school bus stop.
My parents were already at work so I had a toaster pastry for breakfast, which left much to be desired, but was enough to satisfy my then-small stomach – and sweet tooth. I arrived at the bus stop where my friend, Tim, was standing, tapping his foot. “What happened this time? Put your underoos on backward.”
“Shut up.” I stammered “I’m always on time.”
“Only barely.” I grimaced as he teased, then he laughed as the bus pulled up. He then raised his eyebrows in mock flirtation, continuing to tease.
I punched him in the arm and the bus driver yelled for us to stop the horseplay and get on the bus. We piled on and both pulled out a copy of one of our current Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novels and continued reading where we ended. All of these books were tattered from their popularity among us, they were like video games at the time and a great way to entertain us boys on the terribly long bus ride in our under-populated but spacious rural county.
“Dammit!” Tim yelled as we approached the school. The bus driver gave a stark warning telling Tim that one more curse word would result in a trip to the principal. I was in hysterics because he somehow always chose the most gruesome endings in the book and that in turn released some very colorful words, some of which my sheltered ears had never heard before.
It was a mostly boring school day, I watched the rain patter on the window, stopping at a crack halfway down, gathering there until the weight pulled it down the rest of the way. Timothy threw a note asking if I wanted to stay at his place, which per our two mothers was allowed, with certain limitations. I gave him a wink and then threw the paper at his head. I knew that meant we would be playing his Atari all night and staying up late reading our novels. My eyes got wide, however, when he pulled from under his desk, a colorful book with a cover that read, “Choose Your Own Adventure” I mouthed my excitement and he winked back at me. He must have gotten it at the book fair with his allowance.
On the bus, he told me we had to wait until we got to his house to play. And so it was a long and anxious ride, my small frame almost couldn’t handle the anticipation. We stared at the cover of the book. It was almost religious.
He looked me up and down and gave me a half smile. I looked back curiously, but the moment was fleeting as we approached his street.
We both ran off the bus when the school bus parked in front of his house. He opened the door and we laughed as we kick our shoes off and raced to his bedroom. It was a normal boy’s room, except for the adventure books laying everywhere. Dirty socks and t-shirts hanging off of the lamp. That was unusual because his mother is exceptionally neat and would have usually acted with swift punishment, or he wouldn’t hear the end of it for a week.
“Soda or Juice?“ He asks.
“Soda (duh.)”
“Awesome, I will be right back.” He goes to the kitchen and after some clattering noises comes back with two cups, each a different color. Cups for kids (with lids) embarrassing I know, but that is the only way we were allowed to drink in his room. His mom made him adhere to rules like that or he – and me by proxy – would lose the privilege altogether. “Green or Blue?”
“Um, green?” I answered without any real conviction, I just wanted the sugar inside.
“Good choice.” He giggled.
I grabbed and all but devoured the caffeine. Man, I love soda.
He grabs the binder and sits “criss-cross-applesauce” in the middle of the room. I join him as he opens the first page. He was …. waiting for something though. Looking at the page and repeatedly glancing up at me.
“Go on! Read!” I begged. “Stop being such a tease. Let’s start already.”
“We already have.” He said, prompting me to give him a confused look.
“I…. I feel funny.” My vision blurred and I passed out.
I could only barely make out his voice as I lay there. ”You chose Green.”
—-
I woke up in his basement tied to a chair.
“Good Morning” He giggled, childishly.
“This isn’t funny!” My face was red from both embarrassment and frustration as I wriggled around. “Let me go!” I hated being tied down or held down, or anything related; probably because of past trauma with a bully in elementary school. Nothing bad, just unending noogies and knees in my back, while she made me say uncle and rubbed my face in the dirt. I hated it nonetheless.
“Calm down, you baby.”
“What is this!?” I said with sternness, “Let me go!” I yelled for his mother.
He walked up close to me, the one overhead light casting creepy shadows on his face. ”Gone for the week, I’m afraid. Just left this morning; something about grandpa?”
“What the heck, this isn’t funny, you’re scaring me,” I said.
“RELAX.” He said slowly, “we’re just playing a game.” He put his hand on my shoulder and in a warm tone told me everything was going to be ok. I calmed down, he was my best friend after all.
“Relax?” I asked, but he just giggled and shrugged. I blushed and squinted my eyes at him, then after he looked me over and gave me a wink, I looked away out of embarrassment. This was his game.
“CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE,” He did not have the book which he showed me in school, but a small composition notebook. “So you wanna play?!” He asked excitedly.
“I want to go home?” I winced.
He pouted his lip condescendingly and spoke with a mocking tone. “That doesn’t seem to be one of the choices.”
This was weird and made me uncomfortable. But we played strange games all the time, games where we would pretend to be creepy, tried to scare each other, but never to the extent of tying the other up to a chair after… what was that he put in my drink? “I…I’m going to get in trouble, you know. I… I’m not supposed to be over when your mom’s not here.”
“Come on, stop being such a Baby. Your mom probably won’t even notice. My mom’s car is still in the driveway – took a cab to the airport. Just play!”
“Fine,” I said reluctantly.
He began. “Somerville, is a small town, with a rich history. Despite its size, there are many houses, and the architecture feels like a wrinkle in time. Covering each of the Victorian houses is a collection of rust, mold, and weeds. There are two houses in your view. You are cold and hungry. You just escaped a terrible situation, one you aren’t quite ready to even think about just yet. All that you want is to find a way to go home. You notice that one house has red, rustic shutters. The other has no shutters at all. The other houses are darkened, but these two have a warm glow coming from inside. Which house would you like to enter?”
I squirmed and whined. “You know I don’t like the scary ones!”
“Choose!”
I grumbled reluctantly. “The house with the red shutters. NO WAIT!, the ones without shutters.” I knew that in these books, they would usually foreshadow using colors, and I don’t want to end up a bloody mess.
He frowned, seeming a bit defeated. “I wanted you to go the other way.”
I felt hopeful with that response.
He sighs. “You walk into the house and study the long hallway beside the stairs. Looks like a typical building for the period. You shiver as you feel a warm draft from the kitchen, and your stomach churns as you smell something that’s seasoned. You are still very cold and hungry. Do you shout to see if anyone is there? Or do you go into the kitchen to eat?”
It was at this that I noticed my stomach was growling, I hadn’t eaten since school, and the story was right, I did smell something delicious. It was a strange, savory smell. almost like…
“It smells like tomato soup, bread, and steak.”
My stomach made a gurgling sound and I shivered. “I should go into the kitchen. It would be a bad idea to shout in case there was something….” I paused for a moment and looked wearily at him, “…evil… here. I don’t want to set myself up for failure so soon. I go into the kitchen.”
“The kitchen table is covered in food, there is enough for a small banquet. But there is no one around.” He sets a tray down in front of me. It smelled so good on my empty stomach, it was making my mouth water.
“Do you think you could untie me while we eat?”
He doesn’t answer. Then, he reveals the dishes, there is tomato soup and a roll.
“First course; Do you choose the soup or the roll?”
He knows I have a weak spot for tomato soup. “The soup.” It tastes unusually salty and metallic as he spoon-feeds me. Its strange, sweet taste is something familiar and … “delicious.”
“Is that enough?” He speaks gently as if out of reverence or respect, not for me, but for the game.
I feel full but strange. This was an over-encompassing feeling of fear and some kind of resentment in myself. As if I had done something unspeakable.
As I look down at the tray. I notice something sticking out of the side of the dinner roll. It is the tip of a human finger.
I laughed hysterically, I didn’t have to worry about my mom finding out we were here alone. His mom never left.
He spoke when I went silent. “I was hoping you’d choose the other house. But it’s good that you ate, depending on your choices, it’s going to be a long game.”
And it was, it lasted all night, and we were both crying in the end. He let me go; I called my mom who called the cops. He was locked away in psychiatric care after it was proven his mother died of natural causes. As for me, I went to bed everyday the next few weeks without supper. I guess you could say I’d lost my appetite.